


Amaryllis

by Theyumenoinu



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Relationships, Hannibal incarcerated, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hurt Hannibal, Hurt Will Graham, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Hannibal, Jealous Will, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Possessive Hannibal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Hannibal, Protective Will, Revenge, Universe Alteration, mentions of cannibalism, murder scenes, possible smut in later chapters, somewhat slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5551124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyumenoinu/pseuds/Theyumenoinu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is this a vendetta, Will?” </p><p>He endeavors not to flinch, but he must seem ostensibly rattled as the man hastens to assuage him, “You need not worry. Anything you impart to me will be kept in strict confidence. Even more so if bound by specified obligations.”</p><p>Will grins tautly, releasing an incredulous chuckle. “And I’m, what, just supposed to accept the promise of a pathological liar, Dr. Lecter?”</p><p>The man regards him in earnest. “I always keep my promises.” A beat. “And please, call me Hannibal.” </p><p>---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/>Days before his sixth birthday, and while his father had been away on business, Will and his mother found themselves at the mercy of a madman. Now, several decades later, a new string of murders occur matching the same MO of the one who prematurely ended his mother's life. However, to his misfortune, the only one capable of luring the killer out into the open is someone Will hadn't expected to partner with--the devil himself. But, perhaps, some deals are worth burning in eternal flame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal or the characters.

 

 

**Chapter One  
**

 

 

 

 

Will twitches nervously, worrying at the loose strands jutting from the seams along his jacket’s zipper until the ends commence to fray. The action hidden by the sleek metal surface of the table, which also provides, to his relief, a barrier between him and the inmate who’s currently sliding into his respective seat. Every movement dignified and graceful—radiating superiority, even despite his thoroughly demolished repute. His restraints clinking gratingly loud within the enclosed space of the private room while he settles, placing his hands onto the table, and knitting his fingers together with an unnerving air of nonchalance.     

There’s a note of pressure bearing down upon him once the man stills, which Will recognizes immediately as an attempt to gain favor of eye contact. The weight of the man’s gaze rivaling that of Jack’s by its intensity, but nowhere near as demanding.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and oversee?” Alana’s voice suddenly cuts the rising tension. An offer of solace, if only temporarily, from the monster seated before him. Her natural instincts to protect him from the prospect of evil incredibly endearing, but nevertheless crippling whenever it comes to accomplishing specific goals.

Will casts a considering sidelong glance at her, but doesn’t quite meet her eyes. Not wishing her to read the true answer he knows lies within them.

“No. I’m all right.” He issues her a small, gentle smile as reassurance when her posture shifts to indicate her mounting anxiety. “Just keep the guards within painful shrieks distance.”

The jest isn’t lost on her; however, it does nothing to alleviate her state of unease. Her fractional regress of control an ominous sign, if any. And it's only after several moments of silent scrutiny that she concedes his decision. Crossing her arms over her chest as she regards her charge with a pointed look—one that promises to inflict a level of discomfort even the devil himself wouldn’t wish to endure.

“You _will_ behave, Hannibal,” she states with a tone often used to scold a difficult child, to which brooks no room for argument.

“Of course,” comes the man’s reply, pleasant and no more than a second late. His smoothly accented, sultry voice oddly taking Will by surprise. Even though he understands it shouldn’t, given his extensive knowledge of serial killers.

All too aware of how demons work under the guise of angels.

Alana hesitates in her departure—Will feeling her probing stare fall upon him once more before she grudgingly turns for the door. Waiting until the buzz of the lock sounds and the clicking of her heels fade to begin speaking.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” his voice comes out shaky, betraying his own unease. Though, it’s probably been evident long before now. “My name’s Will Graham, and I’m a criminal profiler with the FBI.”

Will hazards a glance toward the man’s face, but doesn’t dare venture past the relaxed curve of his lips. “It’s by Jack Crawford’s jurisdiction that I come speak with you,” he finishes quickly with the belief that the last piece of information divulged has been necessary and is definitely not meant to produce a target to shift censure towards, if there’s to be any.

Lecter doesn’t respond immediately. His head tilting slightly, analyzing possibly every aspect of him as most predators tend to do. The notion of being regarded as prey sending a chill crawling down Will’s spine.

“It’s nice to meet you, Will,” he speaks at length, charmingly polite. “Not terribly fond of eye contact, are you?”

Will huffs a breath at his observation, slightly taken aback by his blunt approach on the matter. “Eyes are distracting. You see too much, you don’t see enough. It’s hard enough to focus on the minute details of colors and tints, the pattern of veins, and possible conveyances of emotion, much less anything else.”

The man’s lips quirk at that. His amusement, at first, seeming artificial, until it occurs to Will that he’s just managed to pry personal information from him with scarcely any effort. His display being that of a reward, and perhaps, a subtle warning of what’s in store now that he’s tested the waters.

Will edges backwards in his seat, unconsciously desiring more distance between them. And drops his gaze to the files stacked in front of him in hopes to inconspicuously put his fear in check. Recalling, how both Jack and Alana cautioned him to remain on guard—something not entirely needed, as he’s already crossed the threshold into the monster’s inner mechanisms.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

He glances up at that, opting this time to study the collar of the man’s ivory jumpsuit with detached interest.

“No.” He swallows thickly, sensing the Ripper stirring behind the shields of his subconscious. “Not exactly.”

Lecter hunches forward, curiosity clearly piqued. “It is assumable you’ve been briefed on my alleged crimes, and have been exposed to insurmountable evidence. Therefore, it’s likely for you to have constructed some perception of me.” He’s prodding, probably for his own amusement, and Will isn’t about to inflate his ego by giving him the satisfaction of a rejoinder.

“You’ve already been profiled,” Will deflects, almost desperately. Unwilling to venture into the dark recesses of the infamous cannibal’s mind anytime soon. “I’m not here to re-examine your crimes or motives, Dr. Lecter, nor to express my opinion on them. You’re not the case I’m working on, but you are affiliated with it.”

“And Uncle Jack impressions me to be the kind of aid you seek,” Lecter speculates, his tone inflecting boredom and an intimate disinclination to provide any service.

Will inhales deeply, and tugs once more at the loose strands before amending, “Well, I believe you could be.” Averting his gaze to the door, he elaborates, “Jack, on the other hand, hasn’t been exactly keen on the idea.”

“I could imagine so, given the history between us,” Lecter says with the absence of a shrug; chains rattling against the edge of the table as he leans to rest against the back of his seat, still maintaining his poise. “Albeit, I’m surprised he’s deferred to your judgment. You must bear some significance to him, or more importantly, to this particular case in order to be granted such leniencies. Especially, with your status being merely temporary.”

Will jerks, his head whipping back; fixating on a point just beyond the man’s left shoulder. “How did—”

“Tell me, Will,” he unceremoniously curtails him, folding one leg fluidly over the other. “What was your previous profession?”

He shivers at the sudden chill that settles over him, presuming it due to a draft and not the presence of a cold-hearted killer. “I was a teacher at the academy in Quantico.”

Lecter’s head cants a fraction to the side in what Will perceives as a sign of approval. “And prior to that?”

“A cop.”

The ghost of a smile returns, as though Will’s disclosed more information than he realizes. “Then, Jack has, indeed, chosen a qualified hound for his monster hunts—one that does not pose detriment to the Bureau, and has plenty of experience in the field. How fortunate, he is.”

Will’s unsure if that’s meant to be a jab or a compliment, but doesn’t bother him to elaborate.

“Well, I’m not entirely here at his behest,” he admits with a tad more bite to his words than he intends. And finally abandons the string in favor of scrubbing tiredly at his eyes beneath the rims of his glasses.

The man instantaneously adopts a peculiar quietude; his breaths silent, body stilling, face a smooth, impassive mask. His sudden demeanor adjustment jarring to witness, even for one who’s delved inside the hellish landscape that is his mind. A perfect portrayal of the calm preceding the storm.

“Why are you here, Will?” he queries, voice carefully measured.

Sliding the files across the table, Will takes a fortifying breath. “I need you to help me find this guy. He’s been at large since the 80’s. And it's been brought to our attention that you've been in contact with one another, so you’re now essential to the hunt.” He waits patiently until Lecter has collected the manilla folders into his hands and commences flipping through them before cutting to the chase. “And I’ve learned your… _contracts_ retain an impressively high success rate.”

That gives the man pause—a crime scene report remaining pinched between fingers.

“You won’t admit to any of those, of course—you _can’t_.” Will exhales heavily, and cards a trembling hand through the soft, tangled curls of his hair. “Confidentiality and all.”

“Is that what Uncle Jack has told you?” he questions, slipping the papers back into their designated folder, and sets it gently onto the sleek metal surface, folding his hands nicely over the pile.

“No.” He meets the man’s eyes, then, and experiences a sensation unlike any other. They’re dark, cool, and rich as raw honey, but those details prove inconsequential to what peeks out furtively at him from the tiny rift of the human veil. Something familiar, only glimpsed within visions—feral, lethal, with a preternatural, dare he say, _beauty_.

Will tears his eyes away.

“I’ve uncovered a pattern of serial murders by certain individuals, all of whom seem to have been treated under your care. I have yet to apprise anyone—namely, Jack—of the theory.”

Lecter inclines his head, thoughtful. “You requested this room for our meeting due to the fact monitoring isn’t— _legally_ —permissible.”

There’s no point in denying it. “Yes.”

An interminable silence descends unexpectedly; weighted and inescapable.

“Is this a vendetta, Will?”

He endeavors not to flinch, but he must seem ostensibly rattled as the man hastens to assuage him, “You need not worry. Anything you impart to me will be kept in strict confidence. Even more so if bound by specified obligations.”

Will grins tautly, releasing an incredulous chuckle. “And I’m, what, just supposed to accept the promise of a pathological liar, Dr. Lecter?”

The man regards him in earnest. “I always keep my promises.” A beat. “And please, call me Hannibal.”

When Will doesn’t make to reply, he continues, “I will assist you in apprehending your target, and I am willing to provide anything else prerequisite—whether it be protection or an encouraging hand.”

“Who says I’m in need of protecting?” Will huffs, feeling somewhat degraded. Wary, now, about striking a deal with Baltimore’s own version of Hades.

“I had not meant to imply fragility," he's quick to amend. "However, the offer still stands, as I presume I will be an active participant.”

“Yes. You’ll be accompanying me to Colorado,” Will informs, waving a hand in gesture toward some distant place outside the facility. “The Widower's been wreaking havoc in the metropolitan area of Denver. I’ll be working with the local PD, and you’ll be there as an asset at the crime scenes and anywhere I may need you. You’ll still be held in a cell each night, but for the most part, you’ll have free range—within reason, of course.”

Hannibal’s brow rises a fraction. “And what will be my recompense once you are victorious?”

“Isn’t fresh air and minimal security payment enough?” Will ventures, directing his stare elsewhere, half-expecting to discover Alana hovering by the door.

“I’m afraid not.”

Will fights the urge to turn to regard him, and instead bites nervously at the loose skin of his bottom lip. “What do you want?”

“Something that, if not in my possession by the time you’ve accomplished the feat, should be given without resistance.”

“And what’s that?” he turns then, surprised when his gaze reconnects with that of fathomless eyes.

A smirk etches slowly across the cannibal’s face, his answer apparently not forthcoming.

Will sighs. "So, do we have an arrangement?”

“I believe we do. All there is left is to seal it.”

Hannibal fluidly rises to his feet, the action taking Will by surprise, as he scrambles out of his chair in a panic. Hearing it clatter loudly onto the floor from behind just as Hannibal rounds the table with speed only a skilled predator could possess, forcing him back against the wall with nothing more than his imposing presence.

A scream catches in Will’s throat as the devil angles his face towards his, breath ghosting hotly over his skin just as the buzz of the lock resounds. Hannibal still managing to lay claim to Will’s lips with seconds to spare before he's wrenched away by several pairs of hands, and forcibly escorted out. Leaving Will to stare after him, shaken and effectively dazed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will and Beverly are my brotp.

**Chapter Two**

 

 

 

“What the hell did you do?”

Will jerks at Jack’s barking tone, still feeling a tad skittish from the previous interaction with Hannibal. Hoping, on the long, hazy drive back to Quantico that his plan could be disclosed in the privacy of the man’s office rather than being cornered in the men’s restroom—of all places—like he is now. Then again, Jack’s interrogations never come with any forethought of location, given he’s continually eager to tear into anyone regardless of who may be listening. Therefore, it isn’t a surprise to Will that Jack lacks concern about it now. His invasive, domineering personality never affording much in the patience department—being hot on Will’s trail since the moment he reset foot inside headquarters.

Nevertheless, Will would’ve preferred a moment to collect himself before enduring the inevitable third degree.

Cupping a hand beneath the steady flow of water, Will splashes the heated skin of his face. Convincing himself he’s stalling for the sake of treating the low-grade fever he’s been fighting off recently, and nothing to do with dodging what’s sure to be an unpleasant confrontation.

Releasing a defeated huff at the weighted stare directed at his head, Will reaches for the paper towel dispenser. “I take it Alana called you,” he presumes, wiping away the excess liquid dripping from his chin, while keeping his back resolutely turned.

“You’re damn right she did!” Will glimpses Jack’s reflection in the mirror, unsurprised to find a stern finger pointed at him. “It’s more than a little concerning when my profiler oversteps his bounds by arranging a private meeting with a convicted serial killer _without_ my permission. Then, to have said profiler _assaulted_ as a result of it.”

Wincing at the reminder, Will ducks his head to slide his glasses on, and finally turns to face the music. Though, he pointedly keeps his gaze directed down at the man’s sleek Derbies. “We discussed using him to catch the Widower, Jack.”

“You mentioned it, yes, but I don’t recall ever making a final decision. Or having _agreed_ that you meet with him, for that matter.”

The scolding wouldn’t feel so demeaning if it weren’t for the fact Jack’s treated him like a five year old since the day he waltzed into Will’s classroom, compelling him to return to the field on temporary status.

“I can make my own decisions, Jack.” Will clutches the chilled edge of the porcelain sink, seeking some measure of support. “And besides, Alana wouldn’t have let me see him if she believed I was in any danger,” he attempts to reason, but it comes out halting and sounding less than convincing.

Jack scoffs at that. “Dr. Bloom was under the impression you were there under my orders, until she called to offer her opinion over me permitting you to meet with him, that is. She never would’ve allowed you that close had she known different.” Taking a daunting step toward him, Jack makes to assert his authority by his typical act of sizing him up. “I need to know what you said to him, Will, and what the hell it is you think you’re doing.”

Will takes a fortifying breath, his hands aching in protest as his grip on the sink tightens. “I asked for his help with the case.”

“ _And_?” Jack advances, breaching Will’s personal space in two long strides.

He sighs. “I told him he’d be there—in Colorado—with me…” Swallowing thickly, he stutters as he tentatively finishes, “For the hunt.”

There’s a sudden, crackling energy that cuts through the air, bringing the hairs on the nape of Will’s neck to stand on end. His heartrate accelerating in anticipation of Jack’s ire, as a nearly palpable wall of silence slams down between them. The roaring of blood in his head deafeningly loud to the point it drowns out all sound, including that of approaching footsteps as someone enters the facility—Jack’s sudden bark at the man to use the ladies’ room nearly causing Will to jump out of his skin.

Risking a glance, Will finds Jack’s gaze pointed elsewhere as the third party scurries out. Seeming too busy trying to corral his own thoughts to notice Will eying him warily.

“I brought you on this case due to the sole purpose that you’re capable of connecting with psychopaths in a particular way that ultimately leads to their capture,” Jack’s tone is tenuously measured, his outrage at his subordinate’s conduct briefly tempered by his unquellable curiosity. “Why are you employing one, Will?”

Will ducks his head, and worries at his lower lip with his teeth before replying, “Certain psychopaths are infamous enough that they gain admirers.” Jack turns to regard him, expectant. Will clears his throat, and elaborates, “They perceive their idol to be a sort of deity, and believe they’re someone who could accept them for what they are.” Shifting his weight, Will concludes, “Who doesn’t want to be noticed and understood?”

Jack releases an elongated, audible breath. “What makes you so sure the Widower’s an admirer of Lecter?”

Relinquishing his hold on the sink, Will habitually folds his arms over his chest, and stands a tad more confidently. “The victims are missing organs. And there’s the fact Dr. Lecter has received several phone calls over the last two months—all coincidentally occurring at the same time of day and twenty-four hours preceding each slaying.”

“You accessed Lecter’s phone records?” Jack blurts, appalled, and groans as he scrubs irritably at his face. “We’re not investigating him, Will. You can’t do that without first obtaining a search permit.”

“I’m not official FBI, Jack,” Will reminds, but looks away guiltily nonetheless. “And I doubt Alana would attest to showing them to me. She may be a stickler for the law, but she seems to marginally lapse in professionalism when it comes to his specific rights.”

Jack hums dolefully. “I have no doubts that Dr. Bloom’s handling him to the best of her abilities. But that still doesn’t _excuse_ your behavior.” Waving his hand for emphasis, Jack chastises, “You could have easily put us both in hot water for this! Practically releasing a high class criminal, and allowing him access to crime scenes and confidential information is beyond unlawful—not to mention, _insane_! How do you expect me to set this up without Internal Affairs catching wind?”

Will licks his lips, his eyes turning downcast to stare absently at the ivory tiling of the bathroom floor. “Report Alana’s safety concerns regarding Dr. Lecter’s interactions with the other inmates at the hospital. Considering, that three have committed suicide merely a short time after being placed in the cells adjacent to his in the last year alone. With that documentation, you could order a temporary transfer without arousing suspicion, while Alana works to seclude a wing and outfit it as a private cell.”

“What about the PD?” Jack questions, not giving any indication of where he stands. “I’m sure they won’t accommodate a known serial killer tagging along. Especially, when I'm not comfortable with the idea of leaving you alone with him.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something to tell them,” Will dismisses, raising a hand to shove his glasses to rest more comfortably on the bridge of his nose, endeavoring to hide his bubbling desperation. “And I won’t be alone, Beverly will be with me the entire time, plus the department. I’ll have enough people looking out for me.”

Will’s eyes flick upwards, finding Jack looking askance and understandably dubious at his plan. He pleads, “I need his help, Jack. He’s our only chance at catching this guy.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Jack reluctantly accedes, “Fine.” Pointing another stern finger, he states, “But know that I don’t like this, and there _are_ going to be some conditions.”

 

~*~

 

Dulles International is practically deserted at the early hour with only a few dozen travelers milling about, awaiting their red-eye flights. None paying any heed to the entourage of gun-toting, uniformed officers and the heavily restrained prisoner they pass on their way to their respective gates; fueled by copious amounts of coffee and scarcely sufficient vending machine snacks.

Will sinks back against the seat, and rests his head against the beam directly behind him as he observes the standard issued MD-80 aircraft taxi up to their gate. Surprised that Jack had been able to charter one and guarantee it empty for their exclusive party at the last minute. Especially, with how limited outfitted aircrafts generally are for prisoner transfers, and the fact they’re normally regulated to be filled to capacity by inmates.

“How much trouble would it have been to charter us one of those fancy private planes with leather swivel chairs that recline?” Beverly grumbles, still half-asleep as she brings her monster of a coffee cup to her lips, impressively gulping the scalding liquid down with little care. “If we’re going to spend roughly five hours confined in a metal tube, thirty thousand feet in the air with a cannibal, we should be afforded some luxury.”

Will’s lips quirk at her uncharacteristic crankiness. “And here I pegged you to be a morning person.”

She makes a point to roll her eyes before practically inhaling more caffeine.

“Then, that makes you a lousy profiler,” she quips with a teasing smirk, depositing the now empty cup into the trash bin directly beside her seat.

He huffs an awkward laugh, still unaccustomed to the typical back and forth banter. His rusty social skills a consequence of eluding the general public for as long as he has. The number of years he’s holed himself up in his tiny, secluded house nestled in the backwoods of Wolf Trap finally catching up to him.

“I guess it does,” he says, offering her a thin-lipped smile in return—which seems to be the correct response by the sting in his arm from the playful punch he receives.

Will’s gaze strays from his sleepy partner—stretching languidly against the backrest of her seat—to the dark, assessing gaze of Hannibal, who observes their interaction raptly from a short distance away. His unflinching scrutiny reminding Will of the gators in his home state of Louisiana; watching their prey intently, while contemplating an opportune moment to strike.

The thought leading him to wonder just how many of Hannibal’s former patients were subjected to that predatory, reptilian stare as they sat opposite from him; open and vulnerable to his whims.

“Will?”

Startled back to the present, Will snaps his head to regard Beverly, and flinches minutely at the genuine look of concern that crosses her features—conceiving he must have been riveted on Hannibal far longer than he realizes.

“Sorry.” Clearing his throat nervously, he hedges, “What, uh… What did you just say?”

Her brows furrow fractionally, but she thankfully doesn’t press him on it. “They’re about to board us. We should probably head over.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.” Will hastily collects Hannibal’s transfer documents from the vacant seat beside him, and tails her to the Jetway entrance. His nerves on edge as an officer pushes Hannibal—strapped to a standing wheelchair—to meet them there. Bringing him to a halt merely inches from Will, as the rest of their party maneuvers to form a barricading semicircle at their backsides.

“I need to see your boarding passes, both sets of IDs, and the prisoner’s transfer papers,” the gate employee requests monotonously, to which Will immediately obliges. His hand trembling as he passes them over, hyperaware of who's closely observing his every action.

It all checks out, and by the time his mind has finally caught up to the reality of the situation, he’s already halfway down the ramp with Beverly’s hand grasping his shoulder to signal him to stop. Both of them staring after Hannibal as he’s wheeled ahead to the hatch, ensued closely by the armed guards.

“Hey. Are you okay?” she tentatively begins, voice subdued; her grip tightening briefly to convey support before she relinquishes him in favor of his need for personal space. Always having been surprisingly perceptive of him, she seems to know just when to press and when to back off. Never once restraining her comments in fear of distressing him, yet all the while still maintaining a consistent level of sensitivity he can appreciate. Her highly intuitive nature being the main reason he hasn’t minded her friendship—other than the fact she hasn’t treated him less than an equal.

“Yeah. I’m all right,” Will speaks to the ground, shifting his weight. “Or I will be.”

Chancing a glance at her, he’s unsurprised to find her looking less than convinced and on the verge of questioning his mental state. “You don’t always have to keep it all to yourself, you know? We all need a shoulder to lean on, sometimes.” _I’ll be that shoulder for you,_ remains unsaid as she starts forward, expecting him to follow suit.

“I know.” He smiles softly as he strides alongside her, digging his shaky hands into the deep pockets of his denims to conceal the only evidence of his nerves.

Beverly exhales heavily as they approach the hatch—the majority of the guards already departing the aircraft, leaving it to them and the skeleton crew who’ll remain for the voyage. Those staying aboard only armed with Tasers—save for one who’s packing a service pistol—as firearms have been strictly prohibited due to the unlikely event of Hannibal gaining possession of one. Forcing Beverly and himself to check theirs in with their bags prior to being permitted through security.

“You think they’ll have alcohol on the flight?” she wonders aloud, eliciting a weak, amused chuckle from him.

“One can only hope.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely took some creative liberties with this chapter.

**Chapter Three**

 

 

 

The flight proves uneventful, as each minute ticks by at a painfully slow rate. Hannibal—heavily constrained to a seat facing opposite to them—has decidedly immersed himself in light meditation. A picturesque of tranquility; his head remains tilted at an incline, lips ever so slightly upturned, and eyes closed as though he were audience to an exclusive performance. Politely allowing them a modicum of privacy despite having been afforded none himself.

Beverly, on the other hand, has spent the better half of the voyage presenting Will with endless videos of dogs at play on the screen of her Android. As well as persuading him to participate in several rounds of Go Fish and Hearts with the card deck she had stashed in the pocket of her leather jacket. That is, until the caffeine pumping through her system tapers, and she commences drifting off into slumber. Her head falling to rest upon his shoulder in lieu of a pillow, which he oddly doesn’t mind—moving a hand to brush a stray strand of hair from her face to curl around her ear just as soft snores begin filtering through the unceasing, low hum of the engines.

Pulling the shade against the blinding, early morning rays of the sun, Will groans quietly at the onset of another headache and the accompanying flare of heat, and fumbles to fish out the small pill bottle from the inner pocket of his jacket. Popping the Aspirin straight into his mouth without a second thought to request water to help chase them down.

“How long have you been feverish, Will?”

The unexpected sound of Hannibal’s voice causes him to jolt. Bringing a sense of amazement when Beverly doesn’t so much as stir in result of the jerky movement.

“Lecter! No talking!” one of the guards barks from the other row, drawing multiple sets of eyes in their direction. A few men already rising from their seats, gearing to force compliance, if deemed necessary.

Will immediately holds up a hand in silent plea to stand down, not needing them to give Jack a reason to call the plan off entirely.

“It’s all right. I’d like a minute to speak to him,” he assures, and is thankful that after a moment of darting, deliberating glances between them, they acquiesce. Returning to their meager conversations, but determined to maintain their vigilance.

Hannibal’s lips quirk at their resignation; his delight at the utter lack of protest shockingly transparent, since the biter mask he arrived in has been removed for the duration of the flight. Granting Will the privilege to intently study his cryptic mien without the hindrance of opaque plastic.

“Not long,” Will answers truthfully, sensing a lie wouldn’t be in his best interest with the likelihood of Hannibal rescinding their contract. “It comes and goes. Nothing debilitating,” he trivializes, averting his gaze as he screws the cap onto the bottle.

“And the headaches?” Hannibal presses, demonstrating his reputable prowess of perception.

Will quells the urge to squirm uncomfortably. “Almost constant, but painkillers are a blessing.”

“I see.” Shifting marginally in his seat, as far as his restraints will permit him, Hannibal starts, “I’m curious as to the reason you left the force?”

Will stiffens, deciphering the non sequitur hidden within the question.

“Medical,” he replies tersely, figuring that omission will be far less damning to his credibility than outright lying.

Hannibal hums, clearly dissatisfied with the ill-defined explanation he’s been given. “Dissociation can be quite difficult; especially, in situations where it is key to survival.”

Will huffs, coming to comprehend what it is he’s angling for. “That’s why I build forts.”

“Yet, associations come quickly.” It isn’t a question, but rather an acute observation—one that alarmingly hits the nail on the head.

“So do forts,” Will sustains, his eyes flicking upwards to the monster’s face, only to find his guarded countenance has sharpened to something a bit more predacious. An overhanging foreboding sending an icy shiver crawling down his spine. “Are you compiling a profile on me, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal, at the very least, has the decency to appear taken aback and mildly wounded at the accusation. “I’m sorry, Will. I can’t shut off my observational skills any more than you can.” With a fractional shift in demeanor, his human mask sliding firmly into place, he adds almost as an afterthought, “And I must insist, once more, that you address me as Hannibal, given the circumstances.”

Will scoffs at his less than genuine apology, and casts a glance over to his partner; finding a portion of her hair has fallen forth to cascade down the front of his jacket in loose, obsidian ringlets. A tiny part of him silently willing her to wake and rescue him from this conversation.

“Please, don’t psychoanalyze me, _Hannibal_.” Gritting his teeth, Will boldly meets the dark, russet tones of the monster’s eyes, and sneers, “You _won’t_ like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”

With that said, and before Hannibal has a chance to provoke him further, Will quickly yet gently guides Beverly’s head to prop up against the backrest of her seat, then hurriedly makes for the relative safety of the lavatory. Desiring nothing more than to escape the intangible hold the psychopath now has over him, if only temporarily. Only registering the jackhammering of his heart against his ribcage once the door is closed securely behind him.

 

              ~*~                    

 

With Denver International being impermissible as their final destination due to high risk security factors, they arrive, instead, at the comparatively small airport of Colorado Springs. Which, ultimately, turns out to be more convenient in terms of travel, as the state mental hospital that houses the criminally insane sits located less than an hour away in Pueblo, while Denver is a mere ninety minute drive in the opposite direction. The hassle being far less in comparison when it comes to collecting Hannibal, since Dr. Chilton—head honcho of the hospital—has only agreed to transport his temporary charge as far as the Springs upon Will’s request. That is, so long as his patient cooperates.

The forty-eight hours leading up to their departure has been rocky, mainly on Jack’s part, as the man worked tirelessly to convince everyone and their mother to permit Hannibal out on partial work release. Most on the city councils and those of the sheriff’s departments not having it, as well as the Denver DA, until another butchering of an innocent family, that is. Their heightening fear causing a momentary lapse in regulation, thus leading to their affixed signatures on the proper paperwork. Granting Hannibal his daily work permit with the stipulations that he remain under constant supervision of an FBI agent, and that he must be precisely returned to the hospital by the five o’clock hour each day.

A deal Will had been immensely pleased to accept, even with the foresight that there’ll be hell to pay once Alana catches wind of Hannibal’s impermanent freedom.

The risk all but necessary if it brings Will one step closer to finding _him_.

Not even a minute passes after the aircraft taxis to the gate before the hatch is wrenched open to allow a new flood of heavily armed guards aboard. And mixed in with them for good measure, a few military men. Which Will thinks may be a bit excessive, considering how Hannibal will be relatively free soon enough, but he wisely holds his tongue. Aware, that there will be repercussions if he were to step out of line and impede their operation; especially, with being a long way from headquarters.

Hannibal doesn’t recoil at their intimidation, but nevertheless obeys each command with a look that suggests he also sees the humor in it. Remaining compliant as he’s strapped down to another standing wheelchair, and not daring to make a defiant snap at the orderly who has jostled her way through the guards to commence refastening the biter mask over his face—wheeling him out onto the Jetway only once he’s fully secured.

Will feels vaguely nauseous as he and Beverly finally rise from their seats to follow them out. His legs wobbly and partially numb from the amount of time sitting, as he continues to wait for the built up pressure in his ears to release with the change in altitude. Somehow managing to pull himself together by the time they emerge through the main door and into the lobby, unsurprised to find a welcoming committee of hospital security and staff awaiting them.

“Which one of you is Will Graham?” A man—presumably, Chilton—questions not two seconds after Hannibal is brought to a halt before him; his eyes searching the group with ill-disguised excitement, while pointedly ignoring his patient’s presence. His casual disregard for propriety seeming to have a profound affect on Hannibal. Will witnessing how the monster’s stare darkens considerably towards his newly appointed therapist and warden.

“That would be me,” Will says at length, and startles when Chilton hobbles past his charge right for him; his cane barely touching ground, the grin on his face widening.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Mr. Graham. I’ve heard so much about you.” Chilton extends his hand eagerly, but Will cautiously refrains from returning the gesture—apprehensive of the knowledge the man implicitly possesses.

“You’re quite the topic of conversation in psychiatric circles,” he clarifies, taking the hint and pulling his arm away.

“Am I?” Will asks flatly, and averts his gaze to Hannibal; seeking him as a distraction from the direction of which this conversation clearly appears to be heading.

“Of course,” he confirms with a tone that inflects a burning desire stretching beyond the realm of professional intrigue. “With such a unique cocktail of personality disorders and neuroses that make you to be the highly skilled profiler that you are, one would give anything to have a chance to study you.”

Will presses his lips in displeasure. Silently damning his luck to be working with such an effrontery man, who views him as a mere stepping stone toward some prestigious award or a higher standing within the aforementioned specialist cliques.

“Perhaps, you shouldn’t be laying all your cards on the table, Doctor,” Will suggests acrimoniously, finding some relief in knowing Chilton has also incurred Hannibal’s disfavor with his blatant, self-serving overtures. “It tends to put people off.”

“So, it seems,” Chilton replies coolly, peeved to be rebuffed at such an early stage in the game. “Though, one could argue psychiatric evaluation is a matter of heightened self-awareness.”

“Will didn’t come here to be analyzed,” Beverly suddenly comes to his defense, appearing in Will’s peripherals like she hasn’t been beside him since departing the plane.

“Maybe, he should be,” Chilton patronizes, leaning his full weight onto his cane. “But I concede that this is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. Especially, with Dr. Lecter so patiently waiting to be escorted to his new home.” He turns to gift his charge with a cursory glance and nothing more. Which for some inexplicable reason irks Will immeasurably, as though he, personally, were the one snubbed.

“I’m afraid I can’t release him to you until tomorrow morning, however. After processing and booking, it’s mandatory he undergo a preliminary evaluation,” he continues, oblivious or unfazed by the leveling stares he’s receiving. “The whole process may possibly eat up most of the day.”

Will doesn’t pretend to miss the deliberate play on words, but he isn't about to entertain the notion of poking at the beast either.

“That’s all right, Dr. Chilton. As it is, we’re not needed until then. Though, it will be an inconvenience if his transport were tardy.” Handing over Hannibal’s documents that include his work permit, Will passively challenges, “But I’m sure punctuality won’t be an issue.”

Chilton straightens at that, pulling a face that indicates his pride has assuredly bruised at the implication of professional incompetence.

“He’ll be at the department precisely at eight, Mr. Graham. No later.”

“Thank you,” Will murmurs, and sidesteps Chilton to beeline it for the baggage claim. Swearing he could almost hear Hannibal's voice within the confined spaces of his skull, whispering words of approval.


	4. Chapter 4

 

**Chapter Four**

 

 

 

The mattress is unbearably firm beneath him; its padding worn and material tattered from constant use. Coils strain against the fabric under his weight, stirring doubts that the bed’s any measure of improvement from that of the concrete floor merely overlaid by a sickly shade of green carpeting. The bedsprings creak noisily despite how minimally he moves, while he disquietly scrutinizes the dark stains and mold along spidery cracks in the popcorn ceiling overhead. Hoping, silently, that the weather doesn’t take a turn for the worst during any point in their stay. Especially, when the heater’s proving to be obsolete.

Will’s gaze wanders curiously to the contrastingly bright, floral wallpaper. Eying the long, narrow strips that have peeled along the moldings before shifting his head to discover himself reflected in the blackened screen of the TV atop the dresser. The Plasma so outdated, he’ll be pleasantly surprised if it receives any decent reception—not that he expects there’ll be excessive amounts of time to relax in the interim of hunting.

Though, in spite of the room’s dilapidated condition, Will feels immensely grateful to have somewhere to rest his head. Or at least, a place to return to when he isn’t tracking the monster, given the reluctance of several motel managers he’d spoken with regarding reservations. Listening as they endeavored to deceive him into believing they made an error with vacancies to the point of overbooking. Their realizations occurring—coincidentally—after the fact of him mentioning the likeliness of “Hannibal the Cannibal” being in the vicinity, if not inside their establishments. Thus, forcing him to call around until one willingly booked them.

Sighing resignedly, Will draws his duffel across the comforter to place underneath his head. His other hand already fishing out his phone from his denims; heart heavy with the cold silence, and yearning for the company of his pack of pups left in Alana’s care.

As always, she answers on the first ring: “They miss you too, Will.”

He smiles uninhibitedly, the heaviness lifting from his chest with the affirmation. “They’re not causing you trouble, are they?”

“No more than usual,” she quips, eliciting a soft chuckle from him. “Oddly enough, Buster hasn’t started up his typical antics.”

“Well, it has only been a few hours,” he counters, hearing her hum in agreement—the distinct sound of rustling papers filtering through the speaker seconds later. Sighing, he fidgets with the loose threads of his jacket; the guilt of his previous deceit weighing on him now that he isn’t being accosted by Jack. “I’m sorry,” he says at length. “About the other day.”

Alana pauses in her tasks—her stillness causing him to swallow nervously, sensing this is the cue she’s been waiting for to confront him.

“I’m worried about you, Will,” she intones gently, her proclivity to sustain his mental welfare bolstered by his out of character intention to mislead her. “We haven’t had a chance to discuss what happened.”

They haven’t, but then again, it’s rather difficult to speak with someone who’s fleeing the building like a bat out of Hell. “I thought Jack would’ve told you about it by now.”

“I’m not interested in what Jack has to say,” she states, voice pitched an octave lower to convey the enmities she harbors for the man. “I’d prefer to hear it from you.”

Will easily catches the underlying accusation of clandestine objectivity, but whether she believes it involves Hannibal or is strictly to do with Jack, he’s unable to discern. Though, from experience, he knows to carefully word his reply, as anything he says will be dissected. Even regardless of the fact Alana has resolved to treat him as a friend rather than a patient, her consecrated sense of duty prevails over every aspect of life, causing her to default often to the mother hen setting. Meaning, Will isn’t spared any more from analytical speculation than those under her qualified care, and that their relationship—much to his dismay—will never evolve into something more, simply because of that.

“I wanted his perspective on a killer,” he begins, apprehensive but not overtly so. “I have reason to believe he may have been a former patient of Hannibal’s.”

“Hannibal?” she parrots with a tinge of surprise. “I didn’t realize you were on a first name basis with him.”

Will cringes at that, internally berating himself for the careless slip. “H-he, uh, insisted upon it.”

A sharp intake of breath pierces his eardrum, forcing him to briefly pull the phone away. Anxiety mounting when she doesn’t immediately reply—her silence being a response all in itself.

“Will—” Alana starts after some time, but abruptly quiets as a frantic, muffled voice on her end feathers through the speaker. “I’m sorry to cut this short, Will, but I need to go. Call me when you have a chance, okay?”

“Of course.” He exhales audibly, already dreading her future inquiries. “I’ll have to check in on my dogs, eventually.”

She barely bids him farewell in her haste to hang up, leaving Will again to the mercy of silence. His thoughts churning violently, as visions of mangled children clutched to their mothers’ shredded bosoms clash dizzily with vivid, fractured images of _that_ night. Hearing a chorus of agonized screams and miserable groans, while a single hand reaches from a wispy mass of shadow towards him—the blood trickling from tips of fingers appearing inky underneath fragmented, pale lunar light.

Will sits up with a start; an insistent rapping dispelling the apparitions and thrusting him back to the present. His body quivering as he stumbles forth from the bed, heedlessly wrenching open the door before the belated thought of ascertaining the person's identity strikes him.

“Finally,” Beverly sighs, stepping inside without invitation—balancing pizza boxes and a six-pack in one hand. “I’ve been knocking for at least five minutes.”

“Sorry,” he rasps, shivering from a sudden inward rush of frigid air that curls around the frame as he shuts it behind her.

Moving to drop their lunch onto the tiny table beside the window, she finally catches sight of his current frazzled state—her gaze searching, the skin between her brows pinching with worry. “I didn’t wake you up or anything, did I?”

“No,” Will assures, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. “Just cold,” he half-truths, pointing a finger toward the broken heater by way of explanation.

The expression of concern painted across her features quickly morphs into one of understanding. “Yours, too, huh?”

Flipping the top open of the box, she wastes no time tearing off a square from the steaming pie—a look of euphoria crossing her face as she bites into it with gusto. “The temperature’s decreased by at least fifteen degrees within the last hour. And even though it’s sunny and hardly overcast, it’s begun to snow,” she says around a mouthful of food. “I’m half-tempted to swing by a Bed Bath & Beyond for some extra blankets.”

Will’s face contorts to that of disbelief, as he pads from the door with the intent to indulge in the appetizing offerings. Bypassing the food purposely for the six-pack sitting precariously on the edge of the table.

“That’s certainly odd,” he comments vapidly, utilizing the side of the table to pop the cap before shuffling over to seat himself at the end of the bed.

Grabbing a beer for herself, Beverly flops down into the only chair in the room; her manicured nails tapping the neck of the bottle absently. “Apparently, bipolar weather is commonplace here. I’ve already been warned by the locals to prepare for anything,” she informs, opening the beer and tilting her head back to take several swigs.

“That should make the hunt interesting,” Will quips, echoing her movements; relishing the sweetness of the amber liquid bursting over his palate and the pleasant warmth spreading through his body as it settles in his stomach.

“Among other things,” Beverly’s quick to add, causing Will to shrink under her inquisitive stare. The anticipated query resting on the tip of her tongue. “Never thought I’d see the day where I’d be working side by side with a serial killer.”

It’s a fair statement to make, Will thinks, for one who has been guided through life by an infallible moral compass. Never once venturing off the beaten path into delicate madness with practicality acting as an anchor. Whereas for him, with his high level of empathy allowing him to experience the beauty and morbidity of murder vicariously through the eyes of the monsters, he's left to drown within their artistry, introspection, and distorted realities until he’s incapable of differentiating what is his mind from theirs.

An ability Jack has all but exploited with little, if any remorse.

Saving lives constantly outweighing Will's wavering stability.

Will shivers again, though this time it has less to do with the temperature and more to do with the nearly palpable tension steadily building between them. Coming to comprehend that the topic has been broached as a test of trust. Beverly's misgivings of where his loyalties lie finally surfacing, as she’s begun to suspect the rumors floating around headquarters—deeming him mentally unstable—may have held some weight after all.

Her unspoken inference that it hadn’t been Jack who requested Hannibal’s services swiftly coming to light.

“That makes two of us,” he finally says, forcing himself to briefly meet her eyes; offering a small, unwieldy smile in hopes to mitigate her state of unease. And endeavors, futilely, to disregard the dull pang in his chest when her gaze falls away in disappointment.

 

~*~

 

Will jolts awake to an inordinately loud ringing; his heart pounding against his throat as he fumbles blindly for it on the side table. Wracking his brain to recall his location, even as he knocks the phone from its cradle, and presses it firmly to the sweaty shell of his ear.

“H-hello?” he croaks, his throat unbearably dry and clicking painfully when he strives to swallow.

“It’s me,” Beverly says without preamble, her professional tone intimating a sense of urgency.

“Is something wrong?” he asks dumbly, his mind still in a fog; the remnants of a nightmare having barely begun to fade. “Why are you calling the motel phone?”

“You weren’t answering your cell, and I’m already on the road,” she answers incredibly matter-of-fact; Will just now registering the faint melody playing in the background.

“What do you mean?” Scrubbing a hand down the damp skin of his face, he maneuvers unsteadily up the bed until his back rests against the headboard. And glances curiously at the analog clock to see the alarm isn’t set to go off for another thirty minutes—a sense of dread instantly overcoming him.

“There’s been another slaying.”

He sucks in a sharp breath at that; his head rocking back until it thumps softly against the woodgrain behind him. “When?”

“Sometime early this morning,” she apprises, the engine revving as the car accelerates. “They think the trail might be fresh enough to track, so they requested one of us to be present on the scene, pronto.”

Will hums in understanding, but struggles to maintain a semblance of calm, as a sudden swell of anger washes over him. The notion of missing an opportunity to personally take down the monster causing his upper lip to curl.

Chuckling despite himself, he remarks, “I’m sure Jack will be thrilled to learn you left me alone with Dr. Lecter.”

She scoffs, unable to argue the degree of which he intimidates her as well. “Yeah. Already thought of that.”

“You won’t tell him?” he questions, somewhat perplexed—unsure whether to feel pleased or consternated at the prospect of another private chat with the notorious Ripper.

“As long as you promise to call me at fifteen minute intervals,” she intones sternly, brooking no room for argument. “If I don’t hear from you, I’m going to assume the worst.”

Will releases an amused breath at that. Imagining his own stiff corpse displayed like a Botticelli; his organs replaced by symbolic floral arrangements of varying colors and shades. Becoming a true masterpiece crafted by talented, influential hands.

“I understand.”

“Good.” She sighs in resignation. “I’ll text you the location.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait.

**Chapter Five**

 

 

 

“Good morning, Mr. Graham,” Chilton calls out—entirely too cheerful—from across the County Sheriff’s lobby; radiating an air of smugness for not only having arrived on time, but for obliquely beating Will by a few victorious minutes. His childish, haughty demeanor enough to force a soft groan from Will’s lips, as he pops a few Aspirin, and grudgingly saunters over.

“Where’s Dr. Lecter? We’re needed at a crime scene,” Will says without preamble, having neither the patience nor the time to exchange strained pleasantries.

“My, my—not even a ‘thank you’ for my service?” Chilton tuts, canting his head to the side. His intonation being that of vexation and unguarded amusement. “Between you and Dr. Lecter, I’d wager gratitude to be something of an impossible standard.”

For some incomprehensible reason, knowing Hannibal’s caused Chilton any measure of grief fleetingly brightens Will’s dour mood. His head ducking as a small, unbidden smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

“I took it upon myself to supplement his wardrobe for the cause,” Chilton elucidates without prompting; his fingers curling around the cane’s handle, gripping the padding tenaciously until his knuckles whiten from the strain. “However, despite my generosity, it’s been brought to my attention that my sense of style is rather ‘ _distasteful_ ’,” he spits out the word caustically, drawing Will’s gaze to absorb the sight of his indignant countenance at the affront. “He demanded to see a catalog to select his own attire.”

Will huffs an amused breath at that. Imagining in his mind’s eye Hannibal’s schooled features, while flipping through the pages at a deliberately slow pace. Occasionally, offering an acknowledging sidelong glance at Chilton, who stands looking on from the other side of the bars, bristling.

“I would think it apparent his _tastes_ differ from yours, Doctor,” Will quips, adjusting his glasses that have inched their way down toward the tip of his nose.

Chilton hums in response, though his spirits lift noticeably at the desired pun; shoulders rolling back as he straightens himself dignifiedly.

“Yes; although, there is one specific affinity we inextricably share, as far as first impressions go.” With an ominous grin that closely resembles the Cheshire Cat, Chilton gestures towards a door off to the right-hand side with an extended, slow sweep of his hand. “If you’ll follow me. Dr. Lecter’s eagerly awaiting you back in holding.”

Disregarding the obvious bait to converse, Will nods for him to proceed, and silently tails Chilton through the door and down a narrow stretch of hall. Overhead lights buzz and flicker intermittently as they journey deeper into the building with only the accompanying sounds of shoes scuffing linoleum and the resounding clacks of Chilton’s cane reverberating from the walls. Will belatedly noting the unsettling emptiness; every office door remaining firmly shut with an absence of silhouetted movement against illuminated, frosted panes, as well as a severe lack of indistinct discussions and static radio transmissions.

That is, until they round a corner to behold the sight of roughly a dozen officers loitering a few feet in front of Hannibal’s cell, blocking him from view. Their heads turning in unison to scrutinize the newcomer; postures tense and expressions sober.

“Special Agent Graham, I presume?” An officer positioned closest suddenly steps forward from the uniformed mass, extending a hand toward Will who flinches away minutely. Her pale pink lips upturning in a warm welcome even despite the display of social discomfort. “I’m Sheriff Molly Foster,” she informs, her smile widening to expose teeth when he finally lifts his arm to offer his own—both of them electing to ignore Chilton's gawk of offended disbelief.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Will says, sincerely grateful for her impartial approach to the less than ideal circumstance; having expected to endure some hampering form of protest or standoffish conduct that could’ve potentially impeded the procedure.

Feeling peculiarly bereft once the warmth of her petite hand slips from his grasp, Will daringly raises his eyes to meet the sapphire pools of her own, brimming with profound fear. His appreciation for her calm and composed demeanor increasing, as she rotates on her heel, and valiantly commences leading him onward through the crowd to Hannibal—Chilton hobbling along, not far behind.

“A couple standard rules,” she begins, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at him; delicate, sandy blond curls pulled taut into a ponytail bouncing with the motion. “You must give at least an hour notice prior to pick up and drop off. And needless to say, you will need my express permission to take him outside city limits, as well as state lines—the exception being that of travel between here and the Denver Metro area, of course.”

Will nods curtly, already figuring that to be the case. “Fair enough.”

“Failure to comply will result penalization; felony charges and the works,” she intones warningly, fumbling for the proper key at her belt. “You Feds may have some agency in terms of his release, but you are not above the law.”

With a soft snort, Will murmurs, “Some would disagree.”

“Yes.” She sighs softly. “But I’m not one of them.”

With the threat made clear, Will’s attention wanders over to the monster, currently seated remarkably placid and regal on the edge of a bench. Hannibal’s immaculate semblance a reflection of his lofty standards with hair meticulously slicked back, and the material of his ebony, double-breasted, maroon pinstripe suit smoothed of any wrinkles and creases. The tie being the only missing piece to the ensemble, obviously denied to him due to safety regulations.

Hannibal’s hard, analyzing gaze remains steadfast upon Will as they draw nearer to the bars. The tiniest glint of something indecipherable alighting the dark depths, causing Will’s skin to crawl.

“Hands up against the wall, Dr. Lecter, and feet apart,” Molly commands, stance authoritative; delaying unlocking the cell until he’s obeyed. “Please, position yourself in the same fashion, Agent Graham.” When Will shoots her a look of bemusement, she instructs, “Right beside him, if you would.”

Hesitantly, Will maneuvers between her and the iron frame. Eying the broad backside of the monster with trepidation, and noting the imperceptible rise and fall of Hannibal’s shoulders with every measured breath, until he’s leaning into the space of concrete wall directly to the left side of him. Feeling his heart in his throat at the close proximity, and the bitingly cold surface beneath the clammy skin of his hands.

For an alarming minute, Will swears he catches sight of something not quite human turn to regard him in place of Hannibal. A hairless creature with tainted flesh of deep onyx, and antlers protruding from its skull; carving paths of pointed, gnarled limbs high into the air. The image so striking, Will does a double take. A shaky breath of relief slipping past his lips when he finds Hannibal’s features unaltered, save for a micro expression of interest at Will’s reaction.

A scuff of a boot telegraphs the sheriff’s approach before her hand snakes through the scant amount of space separating them—efficiently affixing a single pair of cuffs uncomfortably tight to both their wrists without a word of warning.

Will startles—panic clawing up his throat, as his hand is forced to rest mere inches from Hannibal’s due to the insufficient length of chain connecting them. “What’s going on?” he questions over his shoulder, despising the conspicuous tremor to his voice. “What is this?”

“Insurance, Mr. Graham,” Chilton answers with a perceivable note of levity from somewhere just beyond Will’s line of sight. “You honestly didn’t believe we’d allow a dangerous criminal to roam about at will, did you?”

“No…” Will grits, conceding the point. And drops his head in silent defeat, as he officially resigns himself to his irrevocable fate. “No, not at all.”

 

~*~

 

Clambering into the rental proves to be quite the spectacle of flailing limbs. A spike of pain lancing through Will’s skull when his temple collides with the metal frame of the car door as Hannibal maneuvers over the gear pad partition with grace, and settles into the passenger side despite the awkward twist of his arm. Allowing a bit of give until Will has sunk into his seat as well, and the engine’s been turned over and shifted into drive before retracting his arm to lay at an odd angle across the divider—the restraints forcing Will to mirror him.

“Tell me, Will,” Hannibal begins at length, shattering the delicate shroud of silence just as they pull onto the highway. “What was your mother like? She is the reason, I assume, for your unfailing dedication to find this killer.”

Will inhales sharply, and bridles the emotions threatening to overwhelm him at the mere mention of her. “I don’t think you’re at liberty to ask such invasive questions.”

From his peripherals, Will watches the monster’s head cant; studying his profile with razor-sharp focus. “I would apologize for my analytical ambush, but I know I will be doing so again in the foreseeable future. So, I must consider using my apologies sparingly, as I’m certain you will tire from hearing it.”

“I’d rather we kept this impersonal.” Will huffs indignantly; unconsciously stepping harder onto the gas pedal, and jerking with alarm when the car jolts forward in response. “Plus, I’ve never been one for therapy. It doesn't work on me.”

Hannibal exhales in what could almost be considered a sigh. “Perhaps, then, we could socialize like adults?” he counters, pitch softening in an attempt to pacify. “God forbid, we become friendly.”

Will snorts softly at the implications, running a thumb absently along the indentations of the steering wheel.

“Maybe, we could discuss this killer’s rationale?” Hannibal hedges. “I’ve been told you have a knack for the ‘monsters’.”

It takes far too long for Will to catch his meaning. “Do you not consider yourself a monster, Dr. Lecter?”

Another exhale, this time in exasperation at Will’s refusal to address him informally. “I believe what is considered good and evil depends entirely on perception.”

Shaking his head incredulously, Will returns, “The matter of death is only subjective to those detached from reality.” He hazards a glance at the serial killer sitting a foot away, suddenly hyperaware of the fact. “Murder is an expression of that.”

“Is reality not also subjective?” Hannibal lips twitch at the corner, suppressing a genuine reaction before wistfully looking off to a point in the distance. "'Evil exists to glorify the good. Evil is negative good. It is a relative term. Evil can be transmuted into good. What is evil to one at one time, becomes good at another time to somebody else.'"

Will’s lips thin when he's unable to refute it, and tears his eyes from Hannibal to the perpetual stretch of road ahead; decisively too drained to spar philosophies. “The Widower targets families. More particularly, those where the father is required to leave for extended periods for business, as you know.” Taking a fortifying breath, he continues, “Once the mother and the children are dead, he displays their bodies in an arguably heartfelt message for the father upon his return.”

“He believes he is doing the fathers a service?” Hannibal hazards a guess, though Will suspects he’s already aware of the answer, given his possible association with the killer.

“No, his motives aren’t completely altruistic. There’s a factor that triggers his sense of duty, but his messages paint more of his personal story than that of the families’.” Sighing, Will shifts in his seat; the leather groaning under his weight. “He wants his pain to be validated through his tableaus, and is becoming increasingly upset it hasn’t yet.”

Hannibal hums, reflective. “An artist’s true wishes are to have his work appreciated and interpreted correctly.”

Will nods his assent, feeling something in his chest constrict with sudden, dawning fear. The words escaping him hoarsely as he adds, “And to see his masterpieces completed before his end.”

Hannibal doesn't reply, but does, however, give him an appraising look before mercifully turning his attention forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Evil exists to glorify the good. Evil is negative good. It is a relative term. Evil can be transmuted into good. What is evil to one at one time, becomes good at another time to somebody else.' - Mencius


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the wait. Dealing with RL. Anyway, let me know what you guys think.

**Chapter Six**

 

 

 

The ominous clouds Will observes clustering north, forty minutes into the drive, releases their storm mercilessly onto them in a matter of miles. A heavy cocktail of snow, rain, and hail impinging ceaselessly upon the rental as they’re introduced to Denver’s hazy skyline; making travel all the more treacherous through the densely populated city. The hazardous concoction piles in mounds on the highway and conceals patches of ice underneath the layers, causing vehicles ahead to skid dangerously into neighboring lanes.

He can practically feel Hannibal’s studious gaze burning holes into him, taking advantage of the fact he can’t defend himself against it. Even daring to utilize the small space between the cuffs to deliberately brush hands while moving to switch on the radio. Watching curiously as Will instantly forms a tight fist at the surprise skin-to-skin contact before wordlessly seeking and settling on a classical music station. Any minuscule, almost casual violation of his personal space, thereafter, seems to gain in confidence. But Will supposes that’s Hannibal’s intent—to test the limits of Will’s tolerance and catalog his responses. It’s the perfect opportunity to do so with Will otherwise occupied.

The concept of being reviewed like a lab specimen really should unnerve Will more. Alternatively, Hannibal’s attention shouldn’t also evoke a sense of recognition.

Perhaps, it’s likely Will underestimated what it means to deal with the devil.

The intensity of the storm abates as they travel west in direction of Arvada; evidence of its previous path marking the roads in endless white strips. And it’s another half-hour of navigating the streets later that they’re pulling into a residential neighborhood on the far side of the city, merely five minutes from the nearest elementary school, Will grimly notes. The location unmistakable by the barricade of police and unmarked vehicles surrounding the home, and among them, Beverly’s rented, forest green Ford Focus.

Will parks a few feet behind her car, tires brushing against the curb, and kills the engine. Listening to the intermittent clicks as it commences cooling to the ambient temperature, and scrutinizes the man beside him. Witnessing shadows of dark delight dance across the monster’s lacquered human mask, while his eyes rove hungrily over the scene of frenetically bustling police and forensic units before them.

A flood of satisfaction washes over Will watching Hannibal take it all in. Having the distinction that the emotions bleeding into him are from the Ripper—who is pleased, to say the least, over his own relevance.

“What are you smiling at?” Will hedges, feeling a bit lightheaded. Wary, of any verbal confirmation he may receive.

The observation causes Hannibal to hasten restoring his harmless veneer. Withdrawing into the human veil until no discernible trait of the Ripper is left to be assumed by the empath tethered to him. The shutoff being incredibly abrupt and perplexing, given Hannibal’s obvious prideful air towards his true identity. As well as how highly improbable it is for someone with impressive ironclad control, such as his, to fall unaware of careless slips.

 _No_ , Will thinks. _It’s definitely intentional._

But whether it’s meant to throw him off-kilter, lure him into a false sense of security, or spur him to participate in some convoluted mind game, Will isn’t sure. It could easily be a combination of the three or something else entirely.

Hannibal stares resolutely ahead, affording Will a simple thin-lipped smirk. “Peeking behind the curtain. I’ve been curious how the FBI goes about its business when they’re not kicking in doors.”

“Jack never brought you on an active scene?” Will’s brows lift, bewildered. “I thought your credentials were the reason Jack initially sought your services.”

“I was more of an essential tool for maintaining the FBI’s mental faculties, rather than one to provide consult on the cases themselves.” Hannibal unexpectedly makes a sharp movement towards him, causing Will to jerk away, alarmed, while simultaneously reaching for his firearm—his instincts from years as a cop overriding his sound judgment. Hannibal instantly stills, impressively quick in discerning Will’s reaction and instinctively aware any hint of motion could result a bullet.  

Will’s heart pounds against his throat in the protracted second it takes for his adrenaline to taper, and for his head to clear enough to decipher the monster’s intentions with clarity. His tunnel vision expanding as he interprets Hannibal’s body language, registering the sight of his unmanacled hand hovering steadily over the belt latch.

“May I unfasten my seatbelt?” Hannibal wonders after the prolonged, taut silence. His voice snapping Will from his defensive state, and somehow luring his eyes to connect with the russet hues of Hannibal’s own, now glinting with mild amusement.

Will’s gaze skitters away to land on the dashboard, his hand still clutching the pistol grip while he gives a small, permissive dip of his head. Watching, nervously, from his peripherals as Hannibal purposely slows his actions to release the catch; the whirling of the seatbelt inordinately loud within the quiet confines of the car.

Forcing himself to relax, Will tremulously follows suit. Understanding that if Hannibal truly intends him harm, he wouldn’t do so where his chances of escape are slim to none. But then, the Ripper has proven time and again he’s inclined to perform with an increasingly dramatic flair. So, his current demonstration of self-control could be more to do with honoring the spirit of the contract than for the sake of his integrity.

“Civilians, and in this rare instance, convicted criminals aren’t permitted on site. However, Jack pulled some strings to grant you admittance, but you’re still not legally able to consult,” Will begins, for once struggling to avoid eye contact as he swings the car door open, only to be greeted by a sting of frigid, winter air. “So, any discussion will be off the record, and will have to wait until we’re back inside the car. Unless, there’s some consequential piece of evidence I seem to be overlooking, then hint at it, but refrain from speaking.”

Will doesn’t wait for an acknowledgment; already sliding from his seat and nearly losing balance in the process with a sounding squelch of slush underfoot. Gripping the door to steady himself, he remains bent at the waist, slackening his other arm as he waits for Hannibal to emerge. Noting, how effortless the task appears to be for the man; clambering with feline fluidity over to the driver’s side, as though it were nothing more than a minor obstacle. A subtle yet terrifying reminder of what Will has, unwisely, set free unto the world.  

They trudge through the sleet and flurries, ducking under the police tape in unison before crossing the snow covered lawn to the front door. Will halting briefly to inspect the splintered pieces of wood along its frame, scanning the foyer for the latch that now lies a foot in front of the stained staircase directly ahead. Inferring, instantly, it had not only been a forced entry, but a resonant one at that. Peculiar, for the Widower’s profile, as he normally favors the element of surprise.

Careful not to disturb the debris scattered across the flooring, Will and Hannibal move in tandem; following the blood trail that wraps around the bottom banister of the stairs and down the narrow stretch of hall. The hair at Will’s nape prickling with the sensation of Hannibal’s keen gaze trained on his backside. Despising, being unable to put any distance between them with their hands shackled.

The hall leads to an open dining area, partitioning the modernized kitchen and living room. Bringing the abnormality of the display atop the table directly into view, and pausing Will in his tracks to study the thawed, uncooked turkey placed on a silver platter, encircled by empty dinner plates and wine glasses, as well as fancy cutlery. A stage, Will determines—possibly, the initial one. Yet, for some unknown reason, the events of the night didn’t unfold as planned. The absence of a struggle all too apparent with no visible arterial spray or disarrayed furniture; the murders having taken place upstairs instead.

“This isn’t the same design,” Will murmurs to himself, momentarily lost to the stark contrasts before being wrenched back to the present by a familiar voice.

“Glad to see you’re in one piece,” Beverly comments, appearing beside him and proffering a pair of latex gloves.

Will immediately accepts them. His mind racing—slow to register the forensics team huddled in the quaint living room and the flashes of a camera illuminating the dimly lit space. “Thought you had a trail?” Will glances at her expectantly.

“It went cold with the weather.” She huffs in frustration, habitually crossing her arms. “Then, I had to play babysitter, so the scene would stay as fresh as possible for you,” she mutters, only loud enough for him to hear. “You know I don’t do well with kids.”

His lips twitch with an unseemly urge to smile. “Guess we’re not in Kansas anymore, then?”

“Funny you should say that, Toto,” Beverly replies bleakly, turning to guide them but not without first casting a leery sideways glance toward Hannibal—understandably discomfited by his company.

They file into the throng of investigators. Will steeling himself for the horrors he’s about to endure, which are sure to haunt him for an indefinite amount of time to come. The apparitions of children already residing wantonly in his peripheries of conscious thought.

Will isn’t prepared for what he sees.

A man and a woman lie nude, side by side on the woven fleece rug with an arm bent unnaturally across the others torso. In the woman’s hand, she clutches a severed heart—her own, judging by the gaping hole in her chest. Appearing to be feeding it to the man, the organ shoved partway between his teeth. Mirroring her, in the man’s hand, is his castrated genitalia, which has been crammed base first into her mouth; the mushroom head poking out from between blue-tinted lips.

Will takes stock of the innards piled atop their ruined abdomens, but finds none to be missing. The man’s sack and woman’s uterus suspended directly above them to further the humiliation, strung from the ceiling beams by use of surgical thread.

He swallows thickly as he dares to tear his gaze away to the children situated on the couch; small hands folded over their eyes that evidently have been gouged with cheeks stained in rivers of blood. Will noting how their knees are drawn up to their chests in a facsimile position of a fearful child. Their chests hallowed out, and tiny hearts halved and positioned at their feet.

Vaguely, he’s aware that Beverly has begun ushering people out in Jack’s stead. Some putting up token protests, but otherwise leaving them to their own devices.

“You do that special mind trick of yours. I’ll give you some space,” Beverly informs, sounding oddly at a distance. Will only managing a nearly imperceptible, appreciative dip of his head in response. Though, he isn’t completely certain if she catches the gesture or not.

“I won’t be too far,” she says, almost as an afterthought. An indirect threat hanging heavy in the air between her and the monster standing remarkably impassive at his side. The heat of Hannibal’s inscrutable gaze abating considerably as it sweeps past him to Beverly in either a silent challenge or respectful acknowledgement.

Will opts to ignore them, bracing himself for the plunge into abysmal madness. Tuning out all sound, save for the rhythmic beating of his heart and an unsourced ticking. His universe simultaneously shrinking and stretching, as what is distinctly Will Graham recedes with the first swing of an internal pendulum. With the next, his mind’s eye reassembles the bodies to their previous, unmarred conditions. And finally, the last sends him reeling backwards in time, observing the fragments of the front door reform just as his feet plant firmly onto the stoop.

The ticking abruptly silences.

His eyes open.

 _“I’m intimately familiar with this door—this house,”_ he begins, to himself. _“All within these walls belong to me. And I believe, a reminder is sorely needed. To which, everything they have—everything they are—is entirely due to my unfailing generosity. They cannot renounce me, nor replace me.”_

Fishing in his pocket, he removes the key to the property; finding no resistance as he slides it into the deadbolt and turns it with ease. Quite amused that they haven’t bothered to change the locks.

In his hand, he clutches the mesh casing of the Thanksgiving turkey, large enough to feed a family of four. _“You forced me to miss the holiday,”_ he mutters, navigating his way through the darkness to the kitchen—no one alerted, yet, of his presence. _“You know well that you are not allowed to celebrate without me. After all, I’m the reason for it. This is a day for family. Without me, you wouldn’t have one.”_

He bustles about the kitchen, collecting dishware and other essentials. Setting the table for the grand feast that is swiftly to come. Once the preparations are finished, he travels back down the hall and latches the door. From there, he exits the house through the back entrance.

_“I want my entrance to be magnificent. I want them to wake in horror, knowing who has come for them.”_

Circling around to the front door, he lifts his leg and kicks it, feeling it yield instantly under the pressure. The snap of wood resounding through the home exhilarates him, as he waits for his pets to appear. They don’t, however, and their disappointing absence spurs him to climb the stairs in search for them.

Producing the revolver he has on his person, he anticipates the first confrontation, though not by who is now stumbling out of the bedroom door, naked.

 _“She has been fornicating with more than just the one insect I know of, I see. This young suitor has also decidedly stolen what is rightfully mine. He will learn not to take what doesn’t belong to him.”_ He raises the gun. _“I shoot him expertly in the neck, though it is not fatal. The bullet misses every artery, but paralyzes him instantly as it leaves his body. That doesn’t mean he can’t feel pain. I have plans for him later.”_

The parasite collapses boneless onto the floor, blood spilling freely from his wound. He barely gifts the boy a perfunctory once-over before following the hall further down, discovering she has fled to the children’s bedroom, intending to protect them.

_“I smile when dawning horror of what I’m about to do flashes across her face. I—”_

From his peripherals, a figure manifests from the shadows. It distracts him, fractures the scene, and morphs his surroundings into miles of backwoods, blanketed by night. Moonlight being the only beacon in the darkness.

Lying at his feet is a mangled corpse, her blank stare transfixed on the stars overhead. He thinks he doesn’t know this woman, until it clicks.

Distantly, he hears someone calling for him, nearly drowned out by his own screaming. He’s aware he’s falling, of blood pooling around him as he hits the unforgiving ground—her blood.

Then, nothing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

 

“Your name is Will Graham,” someone’s hushed voice carries upon the wind, whispering through the canopy of branches overhead. “It is 10:48 in the morning. You are in a suburban neighborhood in Arvada, Colorado; sitting safely inside an ambulance.”

Gradually, the haunting woodland drenched in pallid light and spoiled blood dissipates, allowing for an outline of a person to appear in his hazy field of awareness. The remaining bits of visual information his brain wrestles to process coming as an obscure mess of blurred shapes and color.

“Good, Will. Now,” the figure encroaches further upon his personal space, monolithically filling his vision to preserve the scant amount of Will’s attention they’ve gained. “I have a hand placed on your right knee—concentrate solely on that. Then, nod when you are able to feel it there.”

His fuzzy world suddenly swims before him, forcing Will to briefly shut his eyes in order to better follow instruction. Willing his muddled senses to pinpoint that particular area of his otherwise numb body. Releasing an audible breath in relief once a foreign pressure commences building incrementally; grounding him in this reality by the physicality of its presence.

After what may have been minutes or hours of loss of control, Will manages a feeble bob of his head.

“Excellent,” comes a fairly clinical response. The hand clasping his leg squeezing gently in encouragement. “I’m going to ask you to take a deep breath. Afterwards, if you would, please repeat back your name, the time, and your location.”

Swallowing thickly, Will battles against the tide of jumbled thoughts and fractured memories; having little other choice but to comply with the request. “My name is Will Graham. It’s roughly eleven in the morning, and I’m in Arvada, Colorado.”

A soft hum of approval precedes an unexpected static shock at the flesh of his cheek, as a hand moves to cup the side of his face. The pad of the man’s thumb hypnotically brushing along his cheekbone and rasping over the scruff blanketing his jaw. Each movement meant to simultaneously soothe and underline their possession, judging by the strength of their fingers digging against the artery of his neck.

“If he’s come out of it, Dr. Lecter, then you need to release him and move aside.”

The ministrations cease abruptly. Hannibal’s crafted illusion shattering and raining down in glittering fragments as Will is thrusted toward full cognizance. Firstly, becoming aware of warm breaths dancing across his face from their extreme proximity. Then, to focus next on a covetous gaze with irises likened to dying embers on the verge of snuffing out, burning holes into his weakened outer shields. The very sight sending a chill racing down Will’s spine at the odd sense of veneration that overcomes him with the heated stare, blending virulently with belated abject horror and muted disgust.

Hannibal’s lips curl into an inscrutable smile.

“ _Dr. Lecter_ ,” she demands again with unwavering authority—a final warning.

“My range of movement is quite limited, I’m afraid.” Hannibal makes to mollify the unidentified official, dropping his hand to maneuver in the cramped space until his back is plastered against the biohazard drawers. All the while maintaining an air of preeminence, as though he’s moved of his own accord.

There’s still a strange disconnect with reality while he watches her clamber inside to join them. Will’s world remaining dreamlike and seemingly out of reach with only the cool of the metal cuff biting at the sensitive skin around his wrist to keep him grounded. Each heartbeat ratcheting up in volume until he’s certain it’s even audible to the two people boxing him in.

She doesn’t smile in warm regard or bodily emote unease as many have done in the Ripper’s company, even once she’s managed to cram herself within the liminal space. Her well-constructed, blank mask conjecturably a product of years immersed in predominately male professions; all requiring some level of emotional detachment. Though, he notes, her eyes sustain little in defense, remaining open and vulnerable to the horrors the world has to offer. Leaving him with an impression of naivety in the face of unadulterated evil, much like the students that dare set foot into his classroom—young minds woefully unprepared for all that’s in store.

 _Relatively fresh out of the academy_ , Will deduces, as a ball of lead forms in the pit of his stomach. _And tossed into the deep end to sink or swim._

“Special Agent Graham?” Will nods. “Agent Clarice Starling; FBI—Denver division,” she introduces herself in regimental fashion, flashing her badge purely out of habit. “I’ve been assigned to assist you on the Widower’s case.”

Will conjures a withering, sympathetic smile at that. Positive, now, that this is her first real rodeo—one to determine if she’ll be climbing or descending the promotional ladder. “My condolences.”

She blinks questionably at him; taken aback momentarily by the ambiguity of his answer, but recovers her wits admirably. “I’m not sure what reasons I’d have to accept them.”

“They’ll become clear soon enough,” he assures, and scrubs tiredly at his face with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Clarice unconsciously postures; accepting his words more as a challenge of her fortitude than that of a compassionate warning. Blissfully unaware of the way Hannibal’s head tilts with intrigue in her direction; studying her as methodically as he earlier did Will.  

“Agent Graham, are you feeling all right?” she begins, professional to a fault. Undoubtedly, making note to fret over his mental state in her daily reports. “You seemed to be having an episode when—”

“It wasn’t the Widower,” Will parries, turning his eyes downcast to stare absently at the creases in his slacks. “These murders were overtly personal. The level of brutality is utterly self-indulgent and narcissistic—a complete negative to the Widower’s more pious disposition.” Waving his free hand generally toward the house, he states, “This was merely plagiarism.”

A low, skeptical sound escapes her at that. “The Widower’s trademarks have been concealed from the public. How can you be so certain this is a copycat when there are more than a handful of similarities?” She doesn’t allow him a chance to answer, her train of thought not one to derail easily. “His kills have collectively ascribed self-serving motives. Wouldn’t it be fair to say he may have been building up to a crescendo? That this family could very well be his own?”

“No.” Will removes his glasses to pinch the pressure at the bridge of his nose. A dull throb burgeoning into a fierce headache at his temples. “He’s already expunged his familial ties. They were more than likely his initial kill—a reprisal. But somewhere along the line, he transmuted his wrath into some deluded, consecrated duty to faithful family men. Painting tableaus of ideal family ethics, while inflicting justice; albeit, distorted and sanctimonious as it may be.”

“Execution elevated to divine art.”

Will’s eyes flick up in surprise at Hannibal’s unexpected input. Finding the man virtually beaming from the attention he garners.

“Nothing is divine about murder, Dr. Lecter,” Clarice reprimands, clearly wishing to remind him of his own self-delusions. “It’s simply a power play. An ego trip to the highest degree.”

Hannibal takes exception to that with a jaded look. “Textbook citations are patronizing, Agent Starling.”

“To someone with a god complex, it would seem that way,” she returns sharply, uncaring to mince words for a serial killer—even one as deadly as the Ripper—who stands a mere arm’s length away.

“And I’m still confused as to why you’re here,” she barrels on, seizing the opportunity to question his motives. Her gaze piercing Hannibal relentlessly. Though, Will’s certain her efforts to see through him are all for naught; the creature unfailingly elusive beneath its reflective surface. “You wouldn’t volunteer without some kind of repayment. How are you benefiting from this—aside from respite and renewed recognition?”

Will flinches at the accuracy of her insight. Appreciative to have someone so keen aiding the hunt, yet undeniably distressed for what she may uncover regarding his partnership with Hannibal. The air around him suddenly heavy and difficult to pull into his lungs, as his heart threatens to punch through his rib cage with each anticipatory pulsation.

Hannibal doesn’t reveal anything incriminating, save for a slow smirk that effectually leeches a bit of a color from her face. One that’s strikingly similar to the smile Will witnessed not long ago, back in Baltimore upon final negotiations of their contract. A purposeful taunt that nobody will ever truly comprehend the inner workings of his mind—that is, unless he desires it.

 _The devil is a master of stratagem,_ Will muses, horrified to learn he’s been playing with fire and has been on the verge of burning alive all this time. _Humankind is His game, and He only plays to win._

Overwhelmed and thoroughly drained of energy, Will unsteadily hops down from the edge of the gurney. Pointedly dodging the questionable stares he knows he’s receiving; especially, when he grudgingly reaches to clutch Hannibal’s arm for balance. Surprised by the feel of hard muscle shifting beneath the thick material of the suit jacket, as Hannibal immediately accommodates his weight without comment.

“I’ll finish profiling the copycat when I’m at headquarters. I need some time to…” He shakes his head. Scarcely able to articulate now the aftereffects of the flashback are dragging him under. “I need a minute to clear my head.”

To her credit, Clarice bridles her suspicions, and exits with no more than a curt nod. A kindness he’s not entirely used to after dealing with Jack’s overbearing procedures. Which, typically, has the man hounding him for answers until he’s edging the line of a mental breakdown. The selfish part of him all the more grateful for the fact he’s across the country, where a phone call can be ignored without threat of the chief of the BAU darkening his doorstep.

“You should err on the side of caution with her,” Hannibal murmurs, frighteningly close to the shell of Will’s ear, and causing the hairs at the nape of his neck to stand on end. “Although her skills are invaluable to your hunt, she is already proving to be meddlesome.”

Will releases a cynical huff at that. “Are you saying she’s a threat to me?” He turns his head a fraction, locking their gazes in challenge. “Or to you?”

The monster’s eyes blaze with ardor, his lips quirking in response. “I am only looking out for you, my dear Will.”

“Which so happens to suit your own agenda,” Will reminds faintly.

Hannibal inclines his head, as though in agreement. “Tell me,” he begins, voice subdued in case of eavesdroppers. “What did you see?”

_A mangled corpse encompassed by trees; bloody and nearly unrecognizable lying at his feet. Delicate curls now a tangled mess framing the deformity of her face. Her gaze cold and unseeing, skin blanch and abraded._

Will blinks; shoving the image away violently. His own voice sounding small and tremulous as he grits out:

“Divine art.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it? Hopefully, now that the writer's block has lifted, I'll be posting a bit more frequently. I apologize for the short length of the chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated!


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